


Don't Even Wish for Snow

by LadyShipwreck



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas, Crack, Fluff and Crack, Hidden identities I guess?, M/M, Peak dumbass, fleeting angst, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:39:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21905350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyShipwreck/pseuds/LadyShipwreck
Summary: Every Christmas for over 300 years, Crowley has put off telling his best human friend that he's a demon. He somehow doesn't see what's wrong with this picture.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 182





	Don't Even Wish for Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Based on these tumblr posts:   
> https://robophantom.tumblr.com/post/189317082358/writing-prompt-s-you-a-demon-have-befriended
> 
> No beta, no shame.
> 
> Diamondot's fault entirely. <3

**1605**

_I’ll tell him soon,_ Crowley thinks, somewhere around his third cup of mulled wine. Against pub windows, snow is drifting into slopes the perfect size for a very small mouse to ski down. It’s either a whimsical thought, or a sign that he should have stopped at two cups. He draws his attention back inside the building and to the real object of his focus. The moonlight on the snow cannot possibly look as lovely as the candlelight glinting off his companion’s spidersilk hair.

“I think it suffered from some second act issues, don’t you?” Crowley is so enchanted with his voice that it doesn’t matter what nonsense Aziraphale Fell is spouting about the King’s Men’s latest production. He has a fondness for the tragedies, which shows an appalling lack of taste for a fellow who looks so-

“Scrumptious.” Aziraphale dabs at his lips with a handkerchief, wiping away any lingering crumb of Christmas pudding and drop of brandy sauce. I wish I was that handkerchief, Crowley thinks. The part of him warning against drinking too much gives up. If the demon is thinking that kind of thought, it is far too late for moderation. This beautiful, absurd, fussy bookseller will be the discorporation of him. Crowley doesn’t know what he’ll do when he finally tells Aziraphale the truth of what he is, and watches fondness turn to brittle disgust.

Just evaporate, if he’s lucky.

“You’re awfully quiet, my dear. I’ve been monopolizing the conversation again, haven’t I?”

“Ah, nah.” Crowley raises his empty cup and wiggles it in the barkeep’s direction, since he and good sense have never been on a first name basis. The proprietress is a good lass, a young widow who treats Crowley with the right amount of disdain. She gives him the same curt nod she always does, and starts filling two cups. He’ll certainly be leaving her some extra coin that night. To promote greed, of course. He’d _never_ do something so undemonic as give a Christmas gift.

“It’s just,” he says, once they both have warm wine again, “I mean, it wasn’t really a comedy, was it? Isabella should have slapped the Heav- the hell out of the Duke after all he pulled. Not married him!”

Zira purses his lips in the way Crowley, over the months he’s known the man, has come to recognize as a sign of amused intoxication. “Well, I won’t argue that, but…” Someday, very soon, Crowley will have to tell Zira all about his true nature, or just cut himself out of the man’s life.

But not tonight. Tonight he’ll give himself the small holiday gift of getting cozily drunk with his best (only) human friend. It may be only a few weeks before he loses him, and Crowley will make every precious moment count.

**1845**

With Christmas only a week away, all of London is on its best behavior. It’s a little cleaner, a little brighter, a _little_ more tolerant of street urchins lobbing snowballs. The city is at its best, and it wants everyone to see. London might as well be auditioning of the role of ‘backdrop’ on the blessedly saccharine Christmas postcards society dames like to hoard.

Crowley hates it in theory, but he can’t bring himself to be too much of a grump. Not when he and Aziraphale are strolling, side by side, along St. James’ snow-slick paths. “I really am glad Victoria’s young man brought over his traditions. These decorated trees are just the right thing to brighten up a dark corner, no?”

“I _really_ don’t think you can call the Prince Consort ‘her young man’, Zira.” Crowley will never understand how Aziraphale can be so proper and such an unrepentant gossip at the same time. “But sure, they’re grand if you don’t mind dried pine needles dropping all over your clean floors.” Crowley has a miniature tree in his own flat, and it wouldn’t dare shed needles on any surface. It has been told in exacting detail what will happen to it if it does.

“Crowley, you really are an Ebenezer Scrooge.” Aziraphale tuts and swats his arm, light and teasing. “Can’t you have any Christmas cheer?”

“No, can’t, I’ma demon,” dies before it even reaches his tongue. Any non-Christmas cheer expires right along with it. He has to tell him soon. Crowley travels for work, and Aziraphale stays put for work, so they don’t really see each other often. A handful of times a year, at most. No matter how little time they spend together, though, Aziraphale is not an unintelligent man. Someday he is bound to read all of Crowley’s little slip ups as clear as words in his books, and the whole sordid story of Anthony J. Crowley will be splashed across the pages of Zira’s mind. He’ll notice how Crowley never takes off his smoked glasses, or how the demon still hasn’t gotten used to legs. Or how he doesn’t age, or always remember to breathe, or any of the many inhuman things that point to his profession being “vile fiend”, not “botanical researcher”.

And what can he say then? “Yeah, I’m a demon, but I’m not trying to damn your immortal soul or drag you to Downstairs or anything like that. Just enjoy chatting. Another glass of wine?” Sure, that conversation would go down smooth as holy water.

A treacherous part of him, the part that still (Satan forbid) hopes, whispers that maybe it wouldn’t be so awful. Aziraphale has always been an uncommonly accepting chap. His patronage of a “discreet gentlemen’s club” is the worst kept secret in Soho. Maybe Crowley can reframe the truth a bit. “Aziraphale, you know how you have a secret side that you hide from society? Me too! Just on a more...cosmic scale.”

And then Aziraphale will look at him like he’s a particularly voracious booklouse and start throwing prayers, or worse, at him, and then…

Crowley’s mind could spin off into hundreds of dire scenarios. He’ll let it run rampant later. For now, he links his arm with Aziraphale’s and nudges him back towards the cheery city. “Let’s go to my club. I hear there’s an excellent roast for supper.”

Zira’s eyes light up. The bookseller presses, just a fraction, against Crowley. The demon can feel the heat of him sinking through every layer of clothing between them to curl around his reptile heart. The truth can wait until next year. At least then he’ll have the unsullied memory of a man and man-shaped being strolling through the park and leaving only their frosted footsteps behind.

**Now**

_Everyone in London_ , the demon known as Crowley decides, _is infected with some sort of brain fungus_. There’s no other explanation for why Borough Market is so crowded in such gray and frigid weather. There’s not even snow to make the act of risking frostbite picturesque. Brain fungus, Crowley is sure. Since he is stooped over a cart of used books, he has to admit the fungus must have gotten to him too.

The serpent is braving the frozen urban wasteland for proper demonic activity: making sure every shopper returns home to find they don’t quite have enough wrapping paper to cover all of their gifts. The bottles of wine and parcels of cheese in the bag over his shoulder are completely incidental. Crowley is a proper demon who would _never_ stoop to buying his closest friend Christmas presents.

He just needs to find one more thing to cap off the not-a-gift. Then he’ll drive back to his flat for a long winter’s nap and a marathon of The Golden Girls (Crowley is _such_ a Dorothy). He spots just what he’s looking for tucked under a stack of vampire romances. A quick miracle keeps the teetering pile from toppling when he yanks “A Feminist’s Guide Shakespeare” from the bottom. The last thing Crowley needs is to be shouted at by the second-surliest bookseller in London.

The spine is cracked and the pages yellowed, but all seem present and accounted for. Crowley flips to an essay on Measure for Measure, chuckling. The demon will never forget the look of horrified glee on Zira’s face when he told Will off for that ending right to the bard’s face. Bunch of nonsense, that silent acceptance of-

Crowley fumbles the book, drawing another glare from the seller. Every nerve alight with the need to be anywhere but here, he pays for the book (he may be a demon, but he isn’t evil enough to steal from an independent local business), and finds himself back in the Bentley with no idea how he got there.

Going through the motions while his mind whirls, he puts the bag and book on the passenger side. With shaking hands, he wiggles his phone out from the pocket of his tight jeans, and leans his head on the steering wheel. “Siri, how long do humans live?”

“ _The average UK lifespan is 80.96 years._ ”

He turns the phone off and tosses it aside. Math may not be Crowley’s strong suit, but even he can subtract 1605 from 2019 and realize it doesn’t come to 80.96. Not even anywhere close.

Anthony J. Crowley, Serpent of Eden, Architect of the First Sin, King of Self-Deception and All Around Nitwit. When the hysterical laughter stops rolling off his forked tongue, Crowley pushes his hair back and sits up. The Bentley purrs awake under his hands, eager to break every traffic law on the way to Aziraphale’s bookshop.

It is Christmas Eve, snow has started drifting down from heavy clouds, and Crowley and his ‘human friend’ have a lot to discuss.


End file.
